Alone Together
by lovethedarkside
Summary: Matthew Williams was running from his miserable existence to build a new life for himself. Gilbert Beilschmidt was running from his tainted past to start over with a clean slate. A story of crossed paths and two broken men who have more in common than they believe. [Prucan, other minor pairings]
1. Chapter One: Runaways

**Alone Together**

**Disclaimer: Everything but the plot and my fictional people and places belong to their respective owners (read: not me).**

. . . . .

For once in his life, Matthew Williams was thankful that his brother was famous. Sure, his social invisibility would be enough for him to slip away unnoticed, but the money and the nice car and the family contacts certainly eased the process along. Matthew had been planning this for a long time, picking through his belongings to find the most meaningful pieces and gathering together clean clothes and money and toiletries. Yet, for as long as he had been planning his great escape, he had nothing. He did not know where he was going to go. He did not know how he was going to make money. He did not know what Alfred would do when he realized Matthew was really gone.

None of this bothered Matthew. This taste of chaos, this complete lack of planning, was wonderfully addicting. It added color to his dreary, unnoticed existence. Matthew savored the buzzing anticipation aching in his bones and let it overwhelm him until he could feel nothing of the qualms nestled in his heart. Potential loomed before him, and he loved it.

Now, he walked slowly through his adopted family's oversized garage, letting his fingers brush over the reds and grays and blacks of the plethora of cars and trucks. Florescent lights hummed in the silence above him, highlighting everything in stark white light. The only other sound was the rolling of the last of Matthew's suitcases, a Canadian affair decorated with a maple leaf and bumper stickers from every state and country he'd visited while with Alfred on tour.

Finally reaching his car, a black BMW, he threw the suitcase into the back and slammed the trunk shut. Pocketing the keys, Matthew followed the winding stone path connecting the house to the garage. He climbed the brick steps of the front porch and walked through the door, stepping into their large foyer for probably the last time in a long, long while. To his left, he could see his adoptive mother, Mrs. Sawyer, scolding the new maid, and to his right, he could see Mr. Sawyer manipulating numbers and figures to ensure a maximum profit. Matthew let his gaze drift over the expensive artwork that Mrs. Sawyer had placed around the house. The whole building was the very picture of tasteful perfection, complete with the latest in wallpaper and furniture and vases. Despite himself, Matthew couldn't bring himself to miss anything in this pretty, but superficial, house. The one and only person that Matthew had any chance of missing was currently upstairs in the room across the carpeted hall from his own room.

Matthew let his hand trail along the railing as he climbed the stairs, before moving to stand in front of Alfred's door. Softly, Matthew rapped on the rich wooden door. "Al?" he called, a small ache in his heart that he was leaving his brother, who was both the reason Matthew chose to leave and the reason Matthew wanted to stay, "Al, I've got something I need to tell you."

The door swung open, and Matthew was greeted by a face almost identical to his own. "Hey, Mattie, bro!" Alfred F. Jones, a successful singer and a popular model and part-time actor here in America, exclaimed while throwing an arm around Matthew. He peered at Matthew curiously. "What's up, dude? You never come to talk to me!"

'That's because you're always too busy with business and your bustling social life to care about talking to a nobody like me,' Matthew thought bitterly. It wasn't that he hated his brother for it, quite the opposite really. He was just tired of being pushed to the back of everyone's minds. He only wanted to step out of Alfred's shadow, and the only way he was going to be able to do that was by leaving and going far away, where Alfred's fame didn't reach.

"Eh, I just wanted to say goodbye," he whispered. Oh, God, the guilt he felt about making Alfred go through this was nearly overwhelming, but he forced his way through the rehearsed words. "I'll be going away for a long time, forever maybe, and I want you to know that it wasn't your fault. You know, I'm proud of you. Maybe you will always be the better of the two of us, but I'm glad that at least you've got a successful life. I love you, Al. You're the best brother I could have asked for."

Alfred's wide smile fell off his face, and a touch of panic and worry entered his eyes. "What? Mattie, wait! Don't... don't do anything rash, please. You're a wonderful person, Mattie. You're smarter than I could ever hope to be, and you're always so kind to me. Please, Mattie, you know, I love you too. Who else could I turn to for advice on all of my stupid little issues? Don't go. I wouldn't know how to survive if you were dead. Please…" His voice trailed off as he saw the stubborn determination, the determination that ran in through their family's blood and led them to great heights, light in Matthew's eyes and set in his jaw.

"It's not like that, Al," Matthew said, choking out a laugh in a failed attempt to comfort his brother, "I'm not suicidal. Just… tired."

"Then–" Alfred cut off his sentence to drag his sleeve across his watering eyes. "Then why are you leaving me? Did I do something wrong?" He sounded betrayed, heartbroken, and Matthew felt his heart move for his idiotic, naïve, well-meaning brother.

"No," Matthew responded fiercely, "You did everything just right. It isn't your fault, as I said. It's mine." He saw his brother open his mouth to argue, and he hurried on before Alfred to protest. "No, don't argue. It's my fault, and I'm sorry, Alfred." Matthew let his tone soften until his voice was barely more substantial than a whisper, "But I have to. Just, let me go. It won't be forever, and it won't be permanent. I-I promise I'll see you again, someday. Maybe you won't recognize me or remember me, but I will come back in this lifetime. I promise."

Alfred stared sadly at Matthew, his eyes glittering again. "Keep in contact, then?" It was whispered, a frail plea.

Matthew smiled weakly. "It wouldn't be running away if I kept in contact, eh?" Upon seeing his brother's broken expression, he relented a little. "Fine. But only so you know I'm alright. No pleading me to come home and no talk of work, okay? Just us, as brothers."

Without another word, Alfred nodded and pulled his brother into a tight hug. "I'll wait for you to come back," he whispered in Matthew's ear, "I'll be right here, waiting." When he pulled away, the tears in his eyes were tracing salty lines down his cheeks, but he made no move to wipe them away this time. "Goodbye… for now."

Matthew stared one last time at his brother's face, memorizing each difference and similarity to his own. "Yeah, goodbye. For now."

The last two words hung in the air, a fragile hope and a promise.

And then he was running. His feet pounded down the stairs and through the foyer. He sprinted past his oblivious adoptive parents and out the front door. Ignoring the stone path, he cut through the grass, still wet with morning dew that left tears on his legs to match the tears on his face. Jumping into his BMW, he slammed the door shut and drove away, leaving everything he loved and hated behind.

. . . . .

Gilbert Beilschmidt stared down at his hands and the letter that he held in them. His eyes traced the looping letters as longing stung his chest.

_Hey, Gilbert. Um, I really don't like beating around the bush, and you know that, so I'll just tell you straight up. I know we've broken up – hell, we barely lasted at all – but I thought you have the right to know, since I know you still have been lusting after me. I am going to get married. He's a wonderful man, completely different from you, not to say that you are an awful man. That isn't true in the slightest, despite everything you've done. I just thought the information would help you move on. Unfortunately, for reasons we both know, I can't invite you to the ceremony. I'm sorry, I really am. I just hope the rest of your life is better. ~Elizaveta Héderváry_

Gilbert felt a spark of rage course through him, and he pushed down an urge to rip the aging paper into pieces. Willing his shaking hands to steady, he carefully folded the note back into a neat little rectangle and stuffed it into one of his bags.

It was five years since he received this letter in the mail, written in a painfully familiar handwriting and sent to him without a return address. Life had not improved since that day, not in the slightest. Life had thrown trial upon trial at him, and Gilbert had failed each one. Now, his younger brother hated him, his love had married another man, and he was broken, reduced to a life of crime.

Gilbert didn't know when his life had taken a turn for the worst. He supposed he was never a very lucky person, even as a child. His father was an ill man who cared little about Gilbert, the child he never wanted, and he left him in the care of a family friend named Fredrick, whom Gilbert fondly called Old Fritz. Fritz was kind to him, training him to fight and to love. But Fritz was already old, and it was only a matter of time that he died, stripping Gilbert of the rest of his childish innocence.

Life was hard, but Gilbert always managed to fight and pull through. Now, it seemed like everything was caving in on him. He had to leave and start again.

Gilbert climbed the creaky old steps to his tiny bedroom. His room was clean and neat as always, but it was also empty. His clothes were packed into two suitcases. The memorabilia from better times fit into a small briefcase. His guitar rode on his shoulder in its case, and everything else was stuffed into a duffel bag.

Carefully, Gilbert looked in his closet and underneath his bed before going through the other rooms of his tiny apartment. He ripped up the carpet of the hallway, wrinkling his nose at the old, moldy smell that rose from the floor. He peeked behind the leaky bathroom pipes that let off a steady _drip, drip, drip_. He opened all the cabinets in the kitchen, disturbing the dust that settled over the unused, outdated appliances. He tapped along the once-gaudy wallpaper, now faded and peeling off the walls. Every room gave off the same aura of _broken, dirty, worthless._ It certainly was a building that accurately reflected its master. Gilbert absolutely loathed it. The only reason he went through it again was to make sure he left no incriminating evidence behind.

Finally satisfied that everything was as it should be, he left the house – if it could be called that – and headed towards town. There were a few people he needed to talk to yet.

The first few were purely business, and they were all dealt with the same way. Gilbert told them that he was leaving and that he came to collect the money that he was owed. They grudgingly handed over the precious cash, not without trying to cheat him, of course, and told him that they would miss having him around. Gilbert would force a smile and look past the blatant lie and return the false sentiment while tucking the euros into his battered wallet.

There was one person he would miss, though: a man who went by the title Doc. Doc resided in an unassuming back alley, which he kept meticulously clean. Any problem you had, Doc had a way to take away the pain. Of course, it was all for a price, but not too expensive that you wouldn't keep coming back. No, how would he ever keep in business like that? And he definitely kept in business. For someone who lived out on the streets, he was decently well off, with the help of Gilbert.

Doc and Gilbert had a special sort of relationship. Gilbert would fetch him customers, and Doc would service him for free. It was simple, and they both held a mutual respect for each other. Sometimes, if they got high enough, they would share the burdens that life had unfairly dealt out to them.

"Hey, Doc," Gilbert said quietly, lifting his hand into a small wave.

Doc looked up at the pale man. "Hey, Gil," he responded, squinting into the sunlight, "Do you need anything?"

Gilbert started to decline. "I probably shouldn't… Ah, fuck it. Give me something strong."

Doc drew his eyebrows together worriedly. "There's something wrong, isn't there?"

"When isn't there something wrong?" Gilbert barked out a harsh laugh and slid down the rough brick wall to sit down beside his only friend.

"You're avoiding the question." It was an accusation, simple and pointed. "Tell me." A command, spoken quietly yet filled with authority.

Gilbert raised his head at the man's tone. "I'm leaving." Those two words were enough to unleash the flood of words that were pouring out of his mouth, uncaring and unstoppable. "I've got to leave this place, this town, this country. Too many memories here in Germany, you know? I just need to get away. Fuck it all. The police are beginning to get suspicious too, I think, or I'm just going crazy. Who knows? I don't know; it's completely possible. I don't know what else to do. I'm sorry that I'm leaving you." He stopped for a moment, a reprieve in the storm rushing from his heart to his mouth, and dug around in his pocket. "Here. I know you don't really do emails or texting or whatnot, what with the nature of our business, but feel free to call or something."

Doc nodded, his despair hidden behind his ever-blank mask. "Good luck then." The words were simple, with a thousand paragraphs of meaning beneath them. _Goodbye,_ he was saying, _I'll miss you. You were a wonderful friend. I wish that we might meet again, but I know that will never happen. Life is cut short when you're living in the streets._ But the words remained unsaid. Their relationship was not based on what they said, but rather, on what they didn't say. They both liked it better that way, and this simple goodbye was all they needed.

"And you too."

With that, Gilbert turned and walked out of that dark alley where he spent so many days wiping away the pain. Now, as he headed for the nearest airport, all he had were the five bags he lugged behind him and the one-way plane ticket he tucked into the front pocket of his jeans.

**. . . . .**

**A/N: Welcome to my new Hetalia fanfiction! I hope you enjoy this, even if updates will be kinda shaky. But bear with me, please. I often have a lot of projects going at once, and I don't finish a lot of them. But! I promise that anything I publish WILL be finished at some point in time, unless there is some tragic event that prevents that from happening.**

**So… please review! Suggestions, questions, and criticism are welcome (though I hope there's not a lot of that last bit…).**

**Until next time~**


	2. Chapter Two: Weary Wanderers

**Alone Together**

**Disclaimer: Everything but the plot and my fictional people and places belong to their respective owners (read: not me).**

. . . . .

Gilbert used to think flying would be the most awesome experience in his life. As a young child, he would sit and daydream, as children often do, imagining himself soaring above the birds and flying to whatever destination lay just beyond the horizon. Owning a plane became his greatest ambition, a goal he knew he would never accomplish but tried anyway. His circumstances simply didn't allow for such extravagant futures; he was a man with too little money and too little luck who wouldn't pass the eye exam to begin with.

So, for the first time in his life, Gilbert found himself standing before the entrance to a plane, the briefcase and the guitar case in his arms heavy and grounding. Before he boarded, he took a moment to appreciate the enormity of this moment. Here he was, about to embark on a new journey and fulfill a childhood dream. This was his one-way ticket out of dear old Brandenburg, the place he had grown up and the place he had fallen.

Maybe one day he would have recovered enough to return to his little town, to revisit his old haunts and to see how life has moved on without him. Maybe one day he would have a wife and kids to take with him and a steady and legal job to fund it all. Maybe one day he would walk the streets once more and talk to old friends and business partners. Oh, how surprised everyone would be. The great and terrible Gilbert Beilschmidt, settled down? How preposterous!

It wasn't until the impatient man standing behind Gilbert poked him several times in the back did Gilbert realize that he had been blocking the entrance for quite some time. Not bothering to mumble an apology – For what did he have to apologize for? The other man should learn some patience! – Gilbert hurriedly took in the interior of the plane.

It was small, with one skinny aisle he had to shove his way through. To his left were rows of three seats and to his right were rows of two. As he fumbled around with his bags, trying not to bump into people who were glaring at him regardless of how careful he was, he arrived at his seat. Double-checking the row number above the seats with the **18F** printed neatly on his ticket, Gilbert slid awkwardly into the window seat. He carelessly shoved his duffel bag under the seat in front of him, his guitar stored safely in the overhead compartment. He stared out the window at the busy airport runways while he waited for whomever he was sharing a row with, though the flight wasn't that crowded.

About ten minutes later, it became apparent that Gilbert wasn't going to be sharing his row with anybody, which left him with a sense of disappointment, but he shrugged it off and told himself that he didn't need anyone else to share his row because he was awesome enough alone. After all, only the weak cluster.

Soon enough, the flight attendants had gotten into position for the obligatory pre-flight safety procedure demonstrations. Gilbert didn't pay them much attention, eager to get up into the air. The first flight would only be an hour long before they would trade passengers at Copenhagen and take a one hour forty minute break. After that, it was across the Atlantic they would go, flying for a projected eight hours forty minutes until they reached Dulles Airport in Washington D.C. Another break, one hour fifty minutes this time, and then it was only an hour and a half until they reached their final destination: Ottawa, Ontario, the capital of Canada.

Finally, _finally_, they were speeding down the runway, steadily gaining speed until there was barely any runway left to speed down. Just as Gilbert was sure they were going to go off the end of the pavement, they were airborne. The feeling wasn't nearly as dramatic as Gilbert had dreamed of, but there was a certain significance in watching the world he thought seemed so vast shrink until the buildings were dollhouses and then specks so tiny they were irrelevant in the grand scheme of the universe.

Gilbert strained to see out the window with the sun in his eyes, to have one last glimpse of his old life. He got a small glance of buildings that could be anything and anywhere, and then the plane was tilting, turning northwest towards Denmark. With no neighbors to talk to, and nothing to read but a flight magazine filled with overpriced gadgets that would only ever serve as expensive dust collectors, Gilbert decided that a quick nap would probably do him some good. He really hadn't gotten much chance to sleep last night, what with all the final preparations that he left wait until the very final moment. After readjusting the air vent above him so that the cold air wouldn't shoot directly onto his face, he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and drifted off into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Gilbert was woken again by the voice of the pilot informing the passengers that they were going to be arriving at Copenhagen in approximately fifteen minutes. Attendants came around prompting the passengers to return their trays to their upright and locked position and prepare for landing. Gilbert peered out his window once more, but didn't see much beyond some wispy clouds and ocean waters. If he twisted and put his face uncomfortably close to the dirty plastic, he could see slowly approaching land that had to be Denmark.

He watched as the land grew closer and closer. Doll-sized buildings steadily grew and rushed towards them. Soon enough, they were gliding above the runway before landing with a harsh bump. Gilbert gathered up his bags before he exited the plane and entered into the Copenhagen airport. His connecting flight's gate was pretty close by, and he did have an hour and ten minutes before boarding started, so he decided to wander around for a bit. The airport was crowded and bustling with rushed activity, so he wouldn't go far, just in case he got lost or something unawesome shit like that happened.

He wandered over to the food court and got himself a quick snack. For a little while, he amused himself with the various vendors near his terminal. Gilbert was actually polylingual, and took great joy in speaking some obscure language to trick the unfortunate employees into thinking he couldn't understand their language.

After a bit, though, that became kind of repetitive, so, grabbing a coffee at the nearest stand, he settled down in a chair and observed the hordes of people.

Most people were speaking Danish, of course, and Gilbert listened in, happy that he could put his multilingual talents to use in an environment that wasn't illegal. He could pick out snippets of other languages thrown in as well. He smiled, letting the words flow over him. He might not seem like the kind of person to appreciate these things, but Gilbert had a deep respect and interest in history and languages.

He really was a lot smarter than people expected, as he looked like a dropout who strayed to the wrong side of the law, but even though he did walk on the illegal side, it was only because it was necessary. It did not mean he was a dropout, and it certainly did not mean he was stupid. Life on the streets did require some wisdom to survive, and Gilbert prided himself for being one of the wisest.

A boarding call for his plane jerked him out of his reverie, and he hauled himself out of his chair to stand in line. One verified plane ticket later, and he was back in a new seat, settled for a much longer flight.

The plane was significantly larger than the last one. Actually, in Gilbert's opinion, it was fucking huge. An Airbus A340, it had three sections of seats. There was a section on each side of the aircraft containing rows of two seats across. The middle section, however, had rows that contained two, three, or four seats across. This time, though, he didn't get anything close to a window seat; instead, he sat in the awkward middle section, though he was fortunate enough to get the end seat.

The huge interior of the plane did make sense. More people boarded the plane this time around, and Gilbert found the two other seats in his row were soon occupied.

"Hey," Gilbert greeted his neighbors with a grin, "I'm Gilbert."

The man beside him turned from his companion, who was sitting on the other side of him, and beamed back at him. He had blond hair and blue eyes, much like his brother's, but he was obviously much more laid back than Ludwig could ever be.

"Hey! I'm Matthias. Nice to meet you." Matthias held out his hand for Gilbert to shake. "And this here is Norge," he continued, elbowing the stoic man to his right.

"Norge" sighed. "My name is actually Lukas," he corrected, also shaking Gilbert's hand, "I don't know why he insists on calling me by my birth country."

Gilbert was intrigued. Norway was a beautiful country with an equally beautiful language. "Oh? You're from Norway?"

Lukas nodded. "Matthias dragged me here on a trip to visit some of his relatives who apparently wanted to meet me."

"He barely got through the month without strangling me," Matthias added.

Gilbert wasn't quite sure how to respond, so he settled with, "So you guys live in Canada?" he asked, even though it was kind of a given, considering they were flying an airline called_ Air Canada_.

"Yeah, in a little development in the very southern part of Ottawa."

Gilbert hummed in acknowledgement. "I'm not sure where I'm going yet. Maybe some angel'll pick me up off the street."

Matthias raised an eyebrow. "Or a policeman will throw you in jail. Dude, why're you flying to another country with nowhere to stay planned out? That's pretty damn stupid, in my opinion."

Gilbert sighed slightly. "It's a long story, but basically, I just needed far away from my shitty wreck called a house."

Matthias peered at him in concern. "Do you need a place to stay? Norge and my place is open if you need it," he offered as Lukas elbowed him with a hissed, "We have enough people living in our house."

"Nah," Gilbert said, shaking his head, "I'll find somewhere, a motel or something. It'll be fine."

Matthias snorted a little in disbelief, but let the matter drop. The trio soon fell into a comfortable silence, during which Gilbert drifted off to sleep again.

When he came back to consciousness, flight attendants were coming around with carts of refreshments. Gilbert flipped through the complementary flight magazine to see what they had to order. He was pleased to see that they offered some alcoholic beverages. Though the drinks were probably some cheap, shitty brand, Gilbert order a beer to celebrate his escape from Germany and from his past. Of course, he would have a proper celebratory drink later, but for now, this would do.

One transatlantic flight and one quick hop north later, Gilbert was standing outside of the airport in Ottawa, his bags on the ground beside him. He was alone, as Matthias and Lukas had gotten a ride home from an intimidating monster of a man. It was almost seven o'clock, and Gilbert was exhausted. Who knew that sitting on an airplane could be so tiring? He gazed blearily around and was hit with the sudden and grounding realization that he had no fucking idea where he was.

Shrugging, he took a shuttle bus away from the airport, a bundle of brochures jammed in his pocket. Maybe the maps on them would help him out. Once he was off the bus, he picked a random direction and started walking.

Two hours later, he conceded to himself that the plan seemed to work out better in his head. By now, it was past dark, and his limbs felt like they were going to give out on him as jet lag caught up with him. Sighing, he made his way over to a small park in a last ditch attempt to find shelter, as there seemed to be no hotels nearby.

He set up camp under the jungle gym and hoped he wouldn't be woken by noisy kids. He quickly drifted off into a deep slumber.

. . . . .

_Insomnia is a bitch_, Matthew decided as he drove aimlessly around town. He guessed he was lucky that he only experienced it when he was really stressed or worried or, occasionally, for no reason whatsoever. Whenever that happened, he would usually do as he was now, drive or walk around and revel in the way the world was so different after the sun went to sleep. Everything was louder and quieter at the same time, the darkness emphasizing each and every noise and movement.

Matthew dimly noted that a police car was parked beside a children's playground. He squinted at the clock on his dash; it was barely after three in the morning.

_It's probably a drunk,_ he thought, proud of his meager detective abilities.

He slowed as he went past the duo, trying to get a better view of what was going on. His headlights caught a bit of white, and he heard some arguing. Matthew slowed even further as he strained to see, even though he knew it was none of his business. Maybe it was because he got a little delirious whenever he got his occasional bout of insomnia, nothing serious, really, but he parked along the curb a few yards ahead of the police car.

Neither of the men noticed as he got out and started walking towards them as they continued arguing. In the dim of the streetlights, Matthew was greeted with the view of the most interesting man he had ever seen. (And he could tell you, he'd seen a lot of interesting men with the company that his brother would keep.)

The man was tall, about the same height as himself, maybe give or take a few centimeters, and pale. Smooth muscles rippled slightly under his skin as he gestured wildly, trying to prove some point or other. But the most striking thing about him were his eyes. They were red with hints of purple, distinguishable even in the dark of the early morning, and far deeper than one would expect eyes like that to be. They were eyes that had seen a lot of things, probably of a darker nature.

Matthew would blame it on the lateness of the night and pity for the poor officer, but in all truthfulness, it was the man's eyes that prompted him to walk up to the officer and enter into their conversation. Matthew took note of the bags gathered around the man's feet as he asked, "What's the matter?"

The officer simply glared at Matthew for interrupting. He was obviously irritated and tired and definitely not in the mood to deal with anybody.

Before the officer could tell Matthew off, the other man cut in, "I was just trying to find a place to stay. It isn't my fault this place is so goddamned confusing." His accent was distinctly German of some kind, Matthew noted with interest.

Curiosity prickled the back of his mind, and Matthew felt the words come out of his mouth before he had any mind to stop them. "Why didn't you just call me for directions?" A name on the man's guitar case proclaimed him as Gilbert. "God, Gil, you didn't have to act like some common vagrant. You did put me in your contacts, didn't you?"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow, obviously unused to random people sticking up for him. "Well... you see, my phone is kind of dead. I thought you would pick me up at the airport, but instead you left me there to fend for myself."

Matthew rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. "Whatever, why don't you just come back to my place for the night before we get you settled, okay?"

Gilbert hesitated, just for a moment, before resigning. "Sure. Is that alright with you, Officer?"

The policeman didn't look too convinced, but he left them go, with a simple, "Just, no more sleeping in public parks or I'm not letting you go free again."

Gilbert shot him an "okay" sign, and Matthew mentally sighed at the double meaning (Gilbert was German after all…). As if reading his thoughts, Gilbert smirked at Matthew before leaning down to grab his stuff. The officer slammed his cruiser's door and drove away. Gilbert turned to Matthew. "Thanks, dude. I won't hold you up any longer."

Matthew was surprised. "Hey, I really meant it when I ask you to come with me. You obviously need somewhere to stay, and I'm not feeling inclined to bail you out again."

"How do I know you're not a serial killer or something? Or I'm not some wanted criminal?"

"Hmm… well I don't really. I guess we'll just have to trust each other. I'm at a motel for the night before I move into my new place tomorrow, so it's not like you'll be inside my house." The pale man scrunched up his nose in consideration until Matthew turned and started walking away as he added, "Unless you _want_ to stay out here. You wouldn't want a rabid polar bear coming to eat you, would you?"

"There are no rabid polar wandering southern Ottawa," Gilbert muttered, but, to Matthew, it sounded more like he was trying to convince himself. Smiling softly to himself, Matthew continued walking away.

"You never know… This is Canada, after all."

Gilbert scoffed, but followed his savior anyway. Rabid polar bears might not be a problem here in the suburbs, but other rabid animals might be. Or rabid policemen.

**. . . . .**

**A/N: Hey, guys! I hope you guys like the story so far. I kinda have it planned out, but it still will take a while, probably. I'm not good at updating things on time…**

**Well, please review! Suggestions, questions, and criticism are welcome (though I hope there's not a lot of that last bit…).**

**Until next time~**


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